


When Lightning Crashes

by EmeraldEyes8917



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Scene, Established Relationship, F/M, Heartbreak, Series 4, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, The lying detective, Thealock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyes8917/pseuds/EmeraldEyes8917
Summary: When Sherlock takes the decision to pursue Culverton Smith by falling into a drug-addled haze, he must distance himself from any and all distractions that would keep him from reaching his goals, even including his brother's faithful assistant, Anthea, to whom he has grown close to.Mention of drug use and reference to a canon character who has passed away.Inspired by the Sherlock Twitter RP group I wrote with for many years.
Relationships: Anthea/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	When Lightning Crashes

**_"Go to hell, Sherlock..."_**  
  
The quiet, authoritative command of the late Mary Watson rang true and clear through the microphones of the surveillance camera neatly positioned in the bookcase in the corner of 221B Baker Street, a message meant to be played after her demise.  
  
The surveillance technician on duty was not entirely alarmed at first, but made the notes of the entirety of the recording and marked the timestamps diligently. Expressing no emotion as the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes began to pace the floor, enacting a monologue that was both manic and disturbing before sinking back into his chair with a troubled look, the technician allowed himself a brief sigh, turning his head from the screen to give the detective a small semblance of privacy, for what it was worth.  
  
Sometimes he really disliked this job...  
  
  
 **Two hours later...**  
  
Anthea's workday had been one so far occupied with minor crises in Parliament, a call with the American Embassy and a chaired meeting of COBRA that proceeded quite productively, so she was prepared to wind down with surveillance reports before she permitted herself to leave the office for the night.  
  
Anthea turned the pages slowly, scanning the details and making personal memos for her own files, strategically leaving the Grade 3 active file on 221B until last, partly out of sentiment but that she also wanted a clear judgement to process these other priorities first.  
  
Mr Holmes would be expecting another report first thing in the morning. Weekly briefings on his brother had been ordered since the Appledore incident and Sherlock narrowly avoiding imposed exile. Given her close, personal connection to the detective, such briefings had to often be delivered by one of her team, for it made her quite nauseous to be so clinical about the man she loved, having to report on his every waking move.  
  
If Mycroft Holmes had skilfully deduced this reason, he did not bring it up with her to avoid any acrimony between them.  
  
Still, she would be dutiful to a point. Coming between the Holmes brothers was not a situation she would willingly enter into.  
  
Finally allowing herself to read the report, her face becomes increasingly pale, as Mary Watson's soul spoke from beyond the grave, telling Sherlock to put himself in a dire position, in order to compel Doctor John Watson to return from the depth of grief.  
  
She sits back in her chair after swiftly flinging the folder across the room, hearing it land in the corner, the pages fluttering free, covering her eyes and sighing brokenly.  
  
This would not end well.  
  
  
  
Like any person devoted to their partner, she would surely discuss this recent event with Sherlock when she arrived home that evening, even before making him tea.  
  
But their relationship was far from ordinary. Her resolve to even broach this topic with him had withered the moment he looked at her, the enquiry dying in her throat, overtaken by happiness at being home with him again. 

Even as she approached him for a light hug, he appeared a degree more receptive than usual, running a hand lightly through her hair and whispering a quiet 'Hello'.  
  
She often trod on thin ice when it came to surveillance, and today, a line had plainly been crossed.  
  
Instead, she would allow him the opportunity to tell her himself what he planned to do, how he would honour Mary's request and how he would save John Watson.  
  
But he was Sherlock Holmes and operated on a higher level to most people. He would more than likely spare her from being divulged of a plan that would place his life at risk, and not want to waste time speaking to someone of average thinking.  
  
That was her self esteem talking now that the guilt had set in after invading his privacy.  
  
Neither of them would speak a word. Instead, they would sit in companionable silence as the logs crackled on the fire, steam rising from teacups, the ticking clock and quiet breathing marking the passage of time.  
  
The moment to even broach the subject had long since passed, as Sherlock did not appear to be in a talkative mood, plucking the strings of his violin. Any other person would feel ignored, but not her.

Silence often spoke greater volumes.  
  
When her eyes began to grow heavy and a yawn crept up out of her chest, she stretches her arms above her head, intoning quietly, "I'm just going to bed."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Do you need anything?"  
  
"No. I'm fine. I just need to think for another while, for a case I'm working on."  
  
 _'What else is going on in that brilliant mind of yours? Why won't you tell me?'_

The thought comes and goes in but a moment.

"Alright. I'm in the bedroom if you need me."  
  
Sherlock doesn't reply but she does not take it personally.  
  
She pads over to his chair quietly, touching his shoulder, before pressing a light kiss to his temple, "Think well, my clever one."  
  
Before she turns to leave, what she does not expect is for Sherlock to take hold of her hand and incline his head to look up at her, all at once intent and innocent.  
  
The look makes her nerve endings tingle in the most pleasant way.  
  
"Goodnight, 'Thea."  
  
He kisses the back of her hand, their fingers loosely intertwined, and with one single blink, he has returned to steely-eyed contemplation, and he gently releases her hand, steeping his fingers and looking into the middle distance.  
  
She does not want to leave him, knowing what she knew. But she convinces herself to leave him in peace, turning towards the kitchen, not looking back for if she did, she would be on her knees, pleading with him to speak to her.  
  
It had to be on his terms, or else it would not work.  
  
Yet even as she drifted off into a restless sleep, the worry would not cease.  
  
  
  
Before the dawn, she awakens to a low, urgent whispering of her name as her shoulder is given several firm shakes.  
  
She groans sleepily, arching her back as she stretches, turning over in the bed to admonish whoever it was who was disturbing her.  
  
As her eyes adjust to the gloom, she realises that it is Sherlock, his eyes like bright beacons even in the dark.  
  
"Sherlock... what... what time is it?"  
  
"Don't know."  
  
It was certainly early, for she could not hear any cars in the street or the beginnings of the dawn chorus.  
  
"Have you slept?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sherlock..." Her disappointment is laced with sleepiness so it was rather endearing rather than actually sounding disappointed, but he does not even register it.  
  
His speech pattern is rapid, breathless, "Too much to think about... too much happening... and I think I need to talk to you... as long as you promise me right now, that you won't go to Mycroft about this. I can't have him poking his nose into this, it's too important. Can you promise me that?"  
  
Her heart sinks, all at once agreeing without hesitation, "Yes... yes, I promise."  
  
"Even if he threatens to fire you, even if he makes your life miserable... he can't know. He must not know."  
  
Knowing how crucial that was, she repeats herself once again, slow and calm, "I promise, Sherlock."  
  
Pushing herself up into a seated position, she looks him in the eyes, her hair in disarray, eyes heavy, yet her expression is determined, "What's going on?"  
  
  
  
Sitting across from him, wearing his blue dressing-gown, the living area has become increasingly colder since the embers of the fire died many hours ago, Anthea listens in complete silence as Sherlock outlines his plan of what he intended to do. 

To fall into a drug-addled abyss, to come to the brink of insanity, and to target a suspected serial killer, Culverton Smith.  
  
The personnel file on the television personality and philanthropist was large and detailed, dating back many years, all appearing above board, but apparently, there was something to be suspicious about.  
  
"And this is the only way?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
While Sherlock seemed fully committed to this plan, she would be a fool and a terrible intimate partner if she did not try to convince him of an alternative way to re-establish his connection with John. She was close to cursing John at this very moment, but outwardly she was still calm.  
  
"Because John refuses to speak to me, I am cut off from that child, and because Mary knows him better than anyone else in this world. Well... in that way, I suppose..."  
  
Now the resentment begins to kick in as she asks him a question that had been on her mind even from the night before, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"  
  
Sherlock's expression does not change, "I knew you would try and stop me."  
  
"You think very little of me, Sherlock."  
  
He meets her eyes levelly, "I know people and how they think."  
  
 _'Don't group me in with people, you arrogant show-off...'_  
  
She decides to be honest without giving him the chance to deduce her hurt feelings, "You know me, Sherlock. I wouldn't try to stop you, even though it's breaking my heart to even imagine you going through such an ordeal. I would ask you if it was the only way if you knew what you were doing. That is what I am doing now. I am trying to understand, so at least give me the benefit of the doubt."  
  
Sherlock appears surprised, "I didn't think you'd be so... logical about it. I always believed my brother would rub off on you one day."  
  
Rolling up the sleeves of his dressing-gown, she allows herself a tiny smile, "I used to be a rule follower, remember? Then you started coming to my office, disturbing my routine, and making me look forward to when security alarms would be tampered with."  
  
This causes Sherlock to smile for the first time, "Yes... I enjoyed those visits too."  
  
"I'm glad."  
  
A beat as Sherlock turns his head, flexing the fingers of his left hand in and out.  
  
"Anthea... while I'm using again... I won't be myself, and... I have to be isolated from things that distract me. This has to be a full commitment or else John won't even consider helping me, that he will think I'm attention-seeking and bored. Does that... does that upset you?"  
  
A lump rises in her throat. It wounded her deeply to even think of abandoning him. It would have almost placed her in the same category as John, but she would not go willingly or leaving such a parting shot as the army doctor did.

"A little. But you have to do this, and... and if I am a distraction..."  
  
"A beautiful one," he murmurs, which makes warmth rise in her cheeks.  
  
"If it needs to be done, then that is what I have to do. I have to respect your wishes, and it doesn't matter what I think. At least, not at the moment."

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something, but instead presses his lips to his index fingers as he steeples them once again out of long-standing habit.

A beat. A breath. Several ticks of the clock as they sit in a moment of silence.  
  
Her tone is hesitant, "Do you want me to move out?"  
  
Immediately, his entire demeanour shifts as his voice swells deep in his chest, "/No/."

He says this rather loudly, sitting up in his chair quite sharply which makes her jump.  
  
He appears stricken at even the thought, and it gives her great pause. In her own version of imposter syndrome, she often convinced herself that Sherlock did not need her, that he had plenty of cases and other people to occupy his time, that he did not require a pencil-pushing government aide who happened to make tea the way he preferred.

He takes a deep breath, calms once again, "Not out of the flat, no. Maybe just upstairs? Just to have you near, but not... close. Wiggins will cover me when I am out in the streets if I have to go to his den, and Mrs Hudson will be here as well. I won't be entirely alone."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"I'm sure... just don't tell Mycroft. He will go to my mother and I will hear no end of it, then my chance is gone."  
  
"I understand."  
  
She bows her head, and unbeknownst to her, the tears had begun to fall and she sniffles quietly.  
  
"Don't cry. Please don't cry..." Sherlock does not sound annoyed, but rather concerned.  
  
His quiet plea only makes her cry more, but she controls her breathing, raising her eyes, eyelashes damp, making one final request that she prayed that he would heed, "Sherlock... if things get too much, if you feel that you are losing control... just text me, or call out for me..."  
  
A thought occurs to her, and she rises from her chair, kneeling in front of him and leans forward to take hold of his hands, "Use my real name."  
  
He blinks in confusion, "What?"  
  
"My real name. That's when I will know that it's a danger time. Text my real name and I will be there." She punctuates each phrase with a gentle squeeze of his hands, smiling calmly despite her tears.  
  
Bewildered, he swallows thickly, "Alright... have you ever told me it, because I may have deleted it because you're Anthea to me, and..."  
  
"I think you tried to guess it once, but you never did correctly. Here, I'll whisper it..."  
  
Closing the distance between the two chairs, she perches on the arm of his chair, leaning in close and saying her birth name softly so the hidden microphones would not be able to pick it up.  
  
"Okay?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"If you are in trouble, or feel that it is getting too much..."  
  
Sherlock reaches up and wraps his arms around her waist, clumsily pulling her onto his lap, hugging her close, "I won't delay..."  
  
"Good."

Gently twisting her fingers in his hair, she tenderly massages his scalp, pressing her lips to his brow over and over.  
  
Sherlock sighs shakily, "Will you... will you still make tea?"  
  
The tentativeness of his question tugs at her heart.

"Of course I will. Those times when you use my real name... I'll bring you tea and pink wafers. How does that sound?"  
  
"That sounds... wonderful."  
  
There used to be a time in their lives when she used to wonder if he wanted her around when she realised her feelings and deliberately held back so not to make him uncomfortable, and now the simple act of making him tea appeared to be a haven for him.  
  
"I love you... I just love you so much, and I wish you didn't have to do this."  
  
Sherlock nuzzles closer to her chest with a low sound, curling his fingers into the silk of his own dressing gown. "I know... I know..."  
  
At this moment, she could feel white-hot anger at John and all-consuming love for Sherlock at once, but she remains quite calm, only humming under her breath, rocking him gently.  
  
"Stay with me?"  
  
"I will. As long as you need."  
  
"Need you..."  
  
  
  
The next morning, as she gets ready for work, it was all she can do to bear down and not give in to the pain, to not call in sick and stay with him. But it had to be this way.  
  
The rest of the early morning had been passed in his bedroom, where he had traced the lines of her face and her body as if committing them to memory, whispering her name in hushed tones.  
  
That revealed birth name was only for emergencies.  
  
He was standing by the front window of the flat, staring out at the world in silence. Even though she was being as supportive as she can be in this situation, already she can feel the distance between them.  
  
"Hello."  
  
He turns back to look at her, his expression unreadable, only holding out his hand towards her. She does not hesitate in approaching him and interlacing their fingers together.  
  
"Will you be alright?"  
  
"I don't know. I've used before and been in control, but this time, it feels so different. The voice... it's getting louder, even now, and I haven't even gone near anything."  
  
How could she leave him like this? It seemed so cruel, and there was nothing she could do to ease what was surely to come.  
  
All she can do is reach into her skirt pocket and take out her charm bracelet, heavy with personal tokens from her family, their friends and from him.  
  
Turning his palm upwards, she gently places the bracelet in his hand and closes his fingers around it, looking up at him all the while, "If things get bad, and the voice is too loud, just remember that you have people who know you and care about you. That you are strong, irreplaceable, and the most incredible man I've ever known. Will you think of that, my clever one?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Okay."  
  
She leans up just as he bends his head down, the kiss is brief but gentle.  
  
"Go, before I can't let you."  
  
"I will... before I can't leave."  
  
Their hands part and she turns away, not allowing herself to even look back. She did not even tell him that she loved him, because he knew that fact so well.  
  
The walk down those stairs and out the front door of 221B to face the day felt like a journey to eternity. But it wasn't forever.  
  
  
  
He never called on her, which was both a relief and a source of heartache, for nothing would keep her from worrying about him. Perhaps her charm bracelet was the one touchstone that he needed to stay tethered to reality. It gave her a measure of comfort to believe that.  
  
It was a simple truth that he was so much stronger than he knew. It did not stop her reading daily surveillance reports to ensure that he was not at serious risk.  
  
Through all those weeks, she did not breathe a word to Mycroft, while he was still quite intense in his questioning of his brother's activities, which were becoming increasingly erratic the deeper he slipped into the drug-using patterns of old. If he ever found out the extent of what she knew, it would surely be the end of her career.  
  
Yet there was some levity to the situation when Sherlock walked through the city one evening, and in choosing his route quite deliberately, it resulted in spelling out a quite rude phrase, clearly visible on the city map to all in the surveillance room.  
  
She manages to cover her mouth to muffle her own laughter even as the room erupted in hilarious rapture as he smiled up to the camera, raising a cheeky toast.  
  
He was still her Sherlock, the great man. The good man...


End file.
